


Stalk

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DH-noncompliant, EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19458943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Harry finds himself in New York, half running from London and half on assignment for the rebuilt Ministry, and finds Draco singing in a midtown pub. He could just walk away, but really, when has walking away from Malfoy ever been an option?





	Stalk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a request by emeraldfeather for singer!Draco in NY, in a bad relationship, pursued by a pining Harry. Serpentinelion Glompfest 2017. Thank you guys for being here!!

###

In all of the years that Harry Potter had watched, fought with, fought alongside, considered, defended and dueled Draco Malfoy, as he had more often than anyone else in the world, he had never thought to himself, ‘This. This is a bloke who would be better off going muggle,’ and it was safe to say that Harry knew him pretty well.

Yet here he was, standing on a stage in a dimly-lit bar in a city across the ocean from the last place Harry had seen him; singing, of all things. His white-blond hair was just a little longer than it had been; just enough to hide his eyes when he leaned into the microphone; his posture as haughty as ever, even in black jeans and a dove-gray dress shirt, cuffs unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. Harry stared over his pint, gobsmacked. He was either imagining things, or he was indeed hearing Draco Malfoy practically growling a song about there being no disappointment until he woke up. Immobilized by the voice he knew so well, yet had only heard sing perhaps twice over their long years of association, he sat, and stared, and drank.

###

One day earlier, Harry had stepped off of a muggle airplane at Newark with backpack-sized carry-on, taken a shuttle to a hotel on the east side of Manhattan and checked in under the name “Martin Taylor”, pulled an impossibly large suitcase from this backpack, found his toiletries, lost interest in the proceedings, and fell asleep atop the bedspread.

Two weeks earlier, Harry had received a message from Hermione, asking if he would please come see her in her office at the Ministry. Shortly thereafter, he was being offered the position of UK Wizarding Advisor to the UN in New York City; Something about shadow groups made of separatist sympathizers trying to expand their reach to the states, and Harry being the primary expert and name brand wizarding hero tapped to become a lifeline between London and New York. Something about Hermione knowing that Harry was absolutely over his home, his hometown, and wizarding society in general-- that was the kind of detail she never missed. He hated the idea, but simultaneously welcomed it, agreed on the spot, and packed his things that evening in preparation for getting the hell out.

Four weeks earlier, Harry had had lunch with Hermione and Ron, and he was still being followed by paparazzi. The lights in the restaurant had flickered along with his rage as the waiter had to use a well-placed _Mobilicorpus_ to escort a stunned photographer off of the premises.

Six months earlier, Draco Malfoy had disappeared into thin air in the early morning hours, leaving Harry in a sheet-tangled sprawl; without a word, without a note. Without an owl since. The first time had become the last time, and Harry was still angry. And truth be told, disappointed, frustrated, and confused. 

A year and a half earlier, Harry had destroyed Voldemort with definitive finality in an anti-climactic duel. Voldemort had been overconfident, Harry had been fueled by a near-desperate rage; it had been no contest. Death Eaters had been collected and put on trial, and Draco was the only Malfoy that had been exonerated. Consequently, he then found himself with nowhere to go and nothing to his name, and took up residence at Hogwarts as the unofficial Defence professor while the school was being rebuilt, having refused all of Harry’s offers of assistance.

Two years earlier, Draco Malfoy had shown up on his doorstep as it were, feverish, shaking, clutching a bag, murmuring about his mother. The bag had contained one final horcrux, and the last thing his mother had said to him was to run. The Order had been attempting to celebrate Harry’s 19th birthday at the time, and there had been no shortage of wizarding power to deal with the situation. And somehow Malfoy had stayed on with the Order, grumbling constantly about the damage that had been done to him. He and Harry at that point were only rarely giving in to the urge to hex one another.

The details of Harry and Malfoy’s relationship before that point were common knowledge; They had hexed, hated, and watched each other by turns, learned one another’s habits, and occasionally stalked one another... purely out of a sense of one-upmanship, of course. 

###  
###

So now Harry was here, in a Midtown pub listening to Draco Malfoy sing a song that spoke of pain and longing and not belonging, and Harry’s heart was breaking all over again.

Hold on-- Harry’s heart hadn’t broken the first time. He knew this; he had held onto this. Harry was well aware that he was an abstraction, a figurehead, and as such, he lived with the certainty that his usefulness to any one person was limited; that his usefulness to any group of people even moreso. When Malfoy had disappeared, he had not been shocked. He’d been... surprised it had taken so long. 

Shit. He needed another drink. That voice was pulling him under more quickly than any pint might.

###

“Hey,” Harry said to the petite brunette bartender wearing curve-skimming all black, who had cheerfully replaced his pint with a highball of scotch at Harry’s request, and had refilled it twice before the musicians had been given an ovation and had declared themselves on break. “Hey, What’s this band called?”

“Them? They’re called _Constellation_. Pretty good, right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry with a nod. “They are.”

“Not hard to look at, either,” the bartender said with a grin. “Of course, I never had a chance with that delicious singer, but,” she shrugged. “I’m just not his type, if you catch me.” Harry stared through her for a long moment, remembering a flash of pale throat, arched in a skewed splash of moonlight spilling through a broken shutter. He shook his head and took a drink. 

“Yeah,” he said, under his breath and returned his gaze to the empty stage. “They been around long?”

“The band, yeah. The singer just joined them a few months ago though. Replacement.” She leaned in conspiratorially as she refilled his glass without his having asked. “He’s much better. The last singer got in a huge fight with the drummer and it all went to shit. They took a break, came back with this kid and they’re killin’ it again.”

Harry nodded his thanks, took a big drink and set the glass down harder than he had meant to. “Huh,” he said, with nothing to add.

“You from England or something?” she asked, leaning on the bar.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “London. Just got here yesterday. On business for a while.” He had no idea why he was volunteering information, but the bartender was unphased.

“They uh. Play here first Thursday of every month?” she said with a small smile. “Y’know, if you’re still in town and wanted to come back and see them. Or me.” She slid a coaster over to him that had ten digits written on it under a name. “Or you could just call me and we’ll figure something out.”

Harry looked up and made sense of what was happening. “Oh. Oh! I’m uh. I’m sorry. It’s--”

“Shit,” she said, her winning smile deforming into a smirk. “Are you married? Gay? Both? Because with me, it’s always one or the other.”

“Uh,” Harry said, “the um,” he gestured futilely with his hand, “second. So sorry. You seem lovely uh--” he squinted at the coaster, but she held a hand up to forestall him.

“Allie. And no, it’s cool. I really should learn my lesson.” she sighed. “I’ve got to get out more.”

For some reason, Harry burst out laughing at that, and it was probably clear that he was laughing at the absurdity of the statement, rather than at her, because she joined him almost immediately.

“Fucking ridiculous, am I right?” she said after a minute, then poured him one more. “One of those was on me, Big Ben. The others are all you.”

“Harry,” said Harry. 

“Huh?” said the bartender. He looked up. 

“Name’s Harry,” he said, offering her a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Mmph,” Allie said, shaking his hand. “Stop that.” 

“What?”

“The um. Talking. The accent. It’s like his--” she said with a inclination of her head towards the stage. “Sexy as hell. Reminds me of one of my auntie’s boyfriends; I had such a crush on him. Ugh. It’s killin’ me.” Harry flushed chest to hairline under her frank appraisal, and she patted the bar. “Go back to your damn drink. I’m gonna work. Harry.” she shook her head, mumbling something that sounded like, “fuck my luck,” as she turned to serve someone at the other end of the bar. Pocketing the coaster just in case, Harry’s smile lasted a moment longer; just until the band returned to the stage. 

###

No one had ever accused Harry Potter of not being obsessed with Draco Malfoy. It had started years ago when they were kids, it had never honestly stopped. It was mutual, all-consuming, inexplicable, frankly stupid, pointless and often painful, and yet there it was.

As a result, Harry had with little difficulty figuring out the name that Malfoy had been living under here in Manhattan ( _David Llewelling. Really?_ ) and had only a little more difficulty finding out where he lived. By the next day, he had taken public transport to the general area-- a grotty neighborhood that wasn’t quite _run-down_ but was not posh in any way shape or form. The building itself was a solid brick affair, at least six stories of living space over some sort of middle eastern grocery store and wedged between two others just like it. He walked up to the doorway to the apartments and saw that a flyer was posted on it, hastily fastened with tape.

...A flyer that advertised the need of a roommate; preferably male, preferably without pets. One who didn’t mind the musicians next door and who was going to have rent money on the first of the month every month, no exceptions, in return for basic furniture and reliable wifi. Harry immediately pulled out his mobile phone, fumbled it at least once in his haste, and had the good fortune of reaching Craig, the poster, on the first try. Craig happened to be home, desperate for a roommate, seemed personable enough to not be a serial killer, and was wholly charmed by Harry’s --no _Martin’s_ \-- offer of six month’s rent up front, on the spot. 

Tall, dark, and actively auditioning for gigs anywhere within a stone’s throw of Broadway, Craig was alternately slinging coffee and answering telephones depending on the day and time. He seemed a nice enough sort, again surprising Harry after all he’d heard about this city. Harry had moved his few belongings into the sparsely furnished flat by dinner, and he and the preternaturally good-looking Craig ate noodles in celebration, traded stories and retired to their tiny, respective rooms. 

Staring at the mysterious stains on the ceiling, he began to hear the faint strum of a guitar; the low laughter of at least two men. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, cursed himself for a fool twice over, and muttered a spell to keep the sound out. Even still, he laid awake for several hours before sleep finally claimed him.

###

“Oh, so now you bloody well show up,” came a familiar voice from the hallway, and Harry turned towards it reflexively, only to find that it had not been directed at him. He took a step back into his own doorway where he could keep listening.

“Come on, baby,” said the man standing in the hallway-- painfully young, tragically hip in a flannel shirt, skinny jeans, knit cap, and a dark beard. A keyring dangled from his hand as he faced down the angry blond blocking the doorway. “Don’t be like that.” 

“You disappeared, Jeffrey. As usual,” Malfoy said, arms crossed. “You’re worse than a manky cat. At least they’re loyal to whatever idiot feeds them.”

“It’s not like _that_ ,” said this Jeffrey character, who Harry was beginning to remember, and already despised. “I went out to talk to that promoter. I ended up having one too many, passed out on his couch.” He shrugged. “Got a raging hangover, but I also got us a gig next weekend. At the Troubadour!” He tilted his head as he held a paper bag out with the other hand. “I picked up breakfast.”

Malfoy remained unconvinced, arms crossed. “I fucking hate everything that passes for food in this city.”

Jeffrey stepped into Malfoy’s personal space and snaked a hand around Malfoy’s waist. 

“Bagels,” he said unconcernedly. “Even got you a cinnamon raisin!”

Supremely unimpressed (it wasn’t an act; Harry knew for a fact that Malfoy hated raisins above all things sadists might slip into baked goods), Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever,” he sighed.

“Excellent,” said Jeffrey, releasing Malfoy and traipsing in past him. “Do we have cream cheese? Or butter? I didn’t get any. Kind of ran out of cash.” 

Malfoy set his jaw and gestured futilely over his shoulder, muttered, “Fuck if I know,” and shut the door.

Harry stood rooted in place, brow knit in confusion. Since when did Draco Malfoy put up with that kind of treatment? Since when was some scruffy drummer calling him ‘baby’ and not finding himself hexed within an inch of his life? Most importantly, is this what he’d chosen as an acceptable alternative to dealing with Harry and... whatever had happened between them?

“This is pretty much why the ad said you shouldn’t mind the musicians,” came a voice from behind him, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Of course, it was just Craig.

“Uh,” said Harry intelligently. “What?”

“Them,” he said with a sanguine head bob in the direction of Malfoy’s door. “Those two. They fuck, they fight, the dude with the dark hair and the shitty beard gets thrown out on the regular, blond guy caves and lets him back in; the other dark-haired dude shows up and they play. Same shit, different day.” He suddenly looked alarmed. “Not that it’s that loud, mostly. It’s just. Repetitive. You’re not gonna want a refund, right?”

Harry forced a half-smile and shook his head. “No, mate. It’s fine. I uh-- I’m just pretty sure I know the blond kid from somewhere. David, is it?”

“Yeah, I guess from the yelling. Uh, the discussing,” said Craig. Harry actually laughed this time. “Ok, fine, yeah, it gets loud sometimes.”

“That’s…” Harry was struggling with a thousand thoughts at once, complicated by the surge and roil of emotions every time he thought about Malfoy. “...Fucking stupid.” 

“Some people are stupid for each other, I guess.” Craig shrugged philosophically. “Some people just… do what they’re doing until they’re not.” 

“I guess,” echoed Harry.

“Anyway, I’m heading to the shop; audition afterward, so I won’t be home until late. Place is all yours, man,” said Craig, offering what looked like a high five. Harry met it and Craig sailed past him. “Later!”

“Yeah, see you,” said Harry distractedly. He shot a last look at Malfoy’s door and then slunk back into his new apartment, lost in thought, errand for the day forgotten.

###

Harry reported into the UN on Monday morning, inordinately amused by the secret Wizarding entrance hidden as a fake trash bin in the alley. It was all fairly standard; Harry was printed and photographed, wand registered, given a badge and short tour, introduced to a number of ambassadors and administrators, fed lunch, given a desk, and sent home with a stack of reading material. Any glamour that might have been attached to the idea of working for the UN was lost entirely in the first few minutes after he’d settled onto his bed with a stack of reports. 

“Who writes these?” he muttered to himself, holding one up and grimacing at it. He’d caught the gist of the situation in the first several paragraphs, but the absolute bombast was mind-numbing. It was as though there were a phantom word count goal and the reporter had been reaching for that goal with a thesaurus in hand. “Ugh.” He made a note in the margin, circled the relevant passage, and set it aside just as an enormous ‘thump’ smacked into the wall near his head.

“Damn it, Jeffrey, back the fuck off,” came a voice that sounded like Malfoy’s, followed by another low voice.

“Lay off, asshole,” 

“‘Mfine. He’s the one that needs to back off,” came another, less steady voice along with a less prominent thump.

Harry, being Harry, was already on his feet and heading for the door.

###

“Everything alright here?” Harry said from his doorway, knowing, _knowing_ he should stay out of it. 

“It’s fine,” mumbled the slight, dark-skinned bloke he’d last seen playing at the club, who seemed to be holding Jeffrey up by one elbow.

“Fuck off and mind your own business,” bellowed the clearly intoxicated Jeffrey.

“P--” started Malfoy, staring so hard in disbelief that he forgot to hold Jeffrey up. “Oh for fuck’s actual sake,” he finished as Jeffrey slumped to the ground. “Why-- never mind. I don’t care.” The bloke whose name Harry didn’t know furrowed his brow as he released Jeffrey’s elbow and looked at Harry, then at Malfoy.

“Uh. New neighbor?” he asked.

“Yes, actually” answered Harry. Malfoy spoke at the same time.

“Old pain in my arse,” Malfoy said, his glare never leaving Harry. “With no fucking business being here.”

“I got a job in the neighborhood,” said Harry with a shrug. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you!” shouted Jeffrey, apparently tired of being ignored. “But you gotta buy drinks if you want to fuck him.” he added with a snort, jerking his head toward Malfoy. Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “That’s how this little shit works. All for fucking until the money dries up. Then he just sits and howls with this fucking piece of shit AJ.”

“That’s enough, Jeff,” said the third bloke, who was apparently AJ. Malfoy shoved Jeffrey over. 

“Leave him. He can stay in the damned hallway with Potter. Or whatever he’s calling himself,” said Malfoy, all ice and determination as he turned his heel and strode back into the apartment. AJ raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Yeah, well, maybe he’ll put out without asking to see my wallet first,” said Jeffrey, crookedly, but filled with malice as he struggled up on his knees.

“Should I, uh. Call the cops or something?” Harry asked AJ, who looked up in what appeared to be alarm. 

“No, nah. It’s fine. We’ll get this idiot sorted out. He’s just had a little too much to drink,” AJ said, as he offered Jeffrey a hand up. “Sorry we bothered you.”

“No worries,” said Harry, his eyes on the newly upright Jeffrey. “Though if I were you I wouldn’t let him in.”

“I live here, asshole,” Jeffrey said. “Hey, are all fucking Brits pricks like you and David in there? I have to know.”

AJ steered Jeffrey forcibly toward the apartment door. 

“Sorry. Ignore him. Sorry again. My bad. Thanks for looking out, man,” AJ said quickly as he followed the drunk through the door and they were gone.

###

The following day, not long after Harry had returned from work and was avoiding returning Hermione’s messages, he was roused by an insistent thumping. The noise could be interpreted as ‘knocking’, but was probably more like ‘banging’, and Harry could practically feel the irritation rolling off of it in waves. Of course, if there was anyone that knew about angry banging, it’d be Harry. He stood, straightened his shirt and answered the door.

“Why the fuck are you here, Potter?” Malfoy snarled before Harry could say a word. At least this, he knew how to handle. 

“I’m on Ministry business,” he said with a shrug. Harry cast a surreptitious eye over Malfoy, who appeared as put together as ever, but his eyes looked tired. _He_ looked tired.

“Why would the Ministry send you to spy on me? Haven’t they done enough?”

“I hate to break this to you, Malfoy, but not everything is about you.” Harry tilted his head and adjusted his glasses. “Did you want to come in? Or do you prefer to have the majority of your arguments in hallways these days?” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. 

“No, actually. I don’t want to come in, my arguments are none of your business and you should have left well enough alone. How did you even find me?” 

“Malfoy. I’m working at the UN and I managed to find this advert. As far as I knew, you were missing and quite possibly dead. It isn’t as though I came looking for you.” It was true enough, at any rate. “Stop being such a fucking paranoid obsessive.”

“You first, Potter,” Malfoy said, lowering his voice.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Harry, hands spread in a gesture that said nothing as much as he’d like to shove a large boulder at Malfoy. “I haven’t even told anyone you’re alive for fuck’s sake. Even though there are a handful of people that would sleep better knowing it.”

“Unfuckingbelievable,” said Malfoy. “You’re still bloody well trying to convert me, or save me or some idiotic Gryffindor bullshit--” Harry made a face as though he were about to retort, but Malfoy held out one hand and kept talking. “You know what? I don’t care who the fuck you tell. Just stay away from me.” Malfoy turned on his heel and strode back to his own apartment, slamming the door shut behind himself.

Harry struggled to maintain a calm exterior; to not rise to Malfoy’s bait, but it was nearly impossible. The light outside his door flickered as he shut his own door with too much force, and he set his jaw tightly, the flat of his hand on the wall beside the locks. Without warning, he picked up and slammed that hand down twice, swearing under his breath at Malfoy, and at his own stupidity in following him around. This was what Malfoy did to him, over and over, and Harry was too... _obsessed_ to stop picking at that scab.

Suddenly exhausted, Harry dropped his forehead to the wall just above where his hand had been and exhaled a huge sigh. There had been no plan in coming here, in following Malfoy, and Harry wasn’t even sure what his goal was. Not that it was going to stop him from finishing this dance.

###

It was stupid thing to do, but he went to the gig. He’d had to do some work to put it together based on what the overly-drunken Jeffrey had been babbling about, but he’d found it, arrived early and taken a seat near the tiny stage. The real question had become then, why? And why was Harry sitting in this barstool in this nicest shirt, flirting intermittently with a well-muscled bartender while nursing a pint of something that was almost drinkable?

Right. Fucking Malfoy. Standing on that stage in an emerald green shirt, unbuttoned at the throat and sleeves rolled up, hair artfully mussed and shooting smirks into the small crowd in between making a show of checking his mic stand and gear. Harry’s stomach clenched and he wondered when this had started. Not following Malfoy--that he’d always done. But the clenching stomach; the hitched breath. All of the _staring_ at Malfoy’s throat. 

Harry finished his pint with a groan, ordered another, and quietly enjoyed the opening set. Malfoy’s voice was a smooth, solid tenor, roughened on occasion by a growl that seemed to grind against Harry’s sternum. He shifted in his seat, by turns riveted and discomfited. Practically sweating, he had never been so glad to hear the phrase, “taking a break”. He hung his head and gave it a single shake, shrugging off the lingering ghost of that growl and cursing himself for a fool.

Yet he still sent a drink across to Malfoy. Still cursing himself, of course. He was nowhere near intoxicated, and therefore had no excuse. Nor did he have recourse when Malfoy was suddenly leaning on the bar in the recently vacated spot next to Harry --but not touching him-- negligently holding the beer Harry had sent. Malfoy’s eyes were not on Harry, but there was no one else he could be addressing.

“I came here looking for a friend of mine,” he said without preamble. “She’d said she was going to come to New York to get away from the fallout of the war. She had far-flung relations with whom she was going to stay.” He sighed. “She wanted to audition for the symphony. P--” he paused, set his jaw and looked away. “She. She played the cello beautifully. I thought she had a chance.”

Turning ever so slightly towards Malfoy, Harry furrowed his brow. “Past tense?”

“I never found her,” Malfoy spat, pushing his tongue into his lower lip for a moment before resuming. “She never made it to her aunt’s home. They caught her en route. Or she diverted elsewhere. Or she bloody well disapparated into thin air. At any rate, I didn’t have a good reason to go back, so I went and got piss drunk at that shitty bar you saw us at last week. The band was playing, and Jeffrey--” he sneered, “--was filling in for the singer, and he was fucking terrible. And I said so. He dared me to do better, and I did. After the set they asked if I wanted the gig, and I figured fuck it. Fuck it all, why not? What the fuck else was left?”

“And Jeffrey?” Harry asked.

“I won’t defend myself to you, Potter,” Malfoy said before taking a long drink.

“I’m not attacking. I’m asking,” Harry said with a shrug. They had after all figured out a way to coexist for a long time before Malfoy had disappeared. He’d almost been “Draco” occasionally as a matter of fact. Harry set his jaw at that thought, but fortunately Malfoy didn’t seem to notice.

“AJ needed a roommate who could actually pay rent. Jeffrey was a convenient piece of ass and I was bored,” Malfoy shrugged back, tilting his head towards the stage where Jeffrey was tossing back shots with a group of young, grabby men and women at the end of the bar. “And you can see he’s a fucking prince.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorted a bitter laugh. He ran a hand through his unruly hair and added under his breath, “Still, anything’s better than me, I guess.” There was a short silence and he looked up to catch Malfoy watching him.

“You’ve no idea, Potter. None.”

It seemed as though it was meant to be a jibe, but there was something in his tone that pulled Harry up short. He tilted his head and regarded Malfoy over the top of his own glass. “I don’t.”

Malfoy met his eyes for another long moment, then smirked as he looked away. “Nothing new there at any rate,” he deflected. “The Ministry will be very disappointed in the utterly mundane details, but the gossip will be delicious.”

“Malfoy, I told you. I’m not here after you,” Harry sighed. “And, to hell with the Ministry. Directly. Hermione’s the only functional thing there, and they’re wearing her down day by day. At least the UN is listening. Might fucking stay here myself.”

“It’s sort of a shithole, but it isn’t London,” Malfoy said, draining his pint and turning to set it down on the bar. “Of course, it’s already filled with idiots, and now it’s only a matter of time before it’s teeming with Gryffindors. It may be time to reconsider my own life decisions.”

“I hardly constitute ‘teeming’,” snarked Harry.

“Where Saint Potter goes, the fan club invariably will follow,” said Malfoy. “At any rate. Stop following me around. It’s pathetic. But thanks for the drink.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode back towards the tiny stage. 

“Later,” Harry said lamely. After a beat, he called out, “I don’t bloody well have a fan club!”

The only response was a very rude, one-handed gesture thrown over Malfoy’s shoulder, one which most of the Americans took to be a peace sign. Harry shook his head with a snort of almost amusement and returned his attention to tossing back his own drink, oblivious to Jeffrey’s glare.

###

Harry gave up sometime after the second and last set, once Malfoy disappeared behind the stage with an armload of equipment. He settled his tab and shuffled out onto the sidewalk to begin his walk home when he heard a scuffle in the alleyway two feet ahead of him. And of course, Harry, being Harry, could as well have sprouted wings and flown off before walking away.

“Take your filthy hands off of me.” The voice was sickeningly familiar. Harry frowned as he recognized the small group of people loading gear into a beaten down van. He took another step into the shadows of a large dumpster and watched.

“You know you want me,” came the other newly-familiar voice.

“Jeffrey, lay off,” came the third. “Let’s just get the gear packed up and we can have this fight at the apartment, alright?”

“No, here’s good,” said Jeffrey. “I just want a little piece of my sweet English rose out here in the alley,” he added. Harry could see that he had stopped and leaned on the side of the van, reaching for Malfoy, who was not-gently slapping Jeffrey’s hands away.

“For fuck’s sake. Keep it together,” said AJ, setting an amp into the truck. Harry crept into the mouth of the alley, using a dumpster to conceal the bulk of his person.

“I paid for this ass fair and square,” said Jeffrey, grabbing at Malfoy again. “And now he just wanted to give it away to that Brit fa--”

This time Malfoy dropped whatever he’d been carrying onto Jeffrey’s foot, and when he doubled over swearing, caught his shirt collar and shoved him against the van. Harry could see the instinctive reach toward his back pocket for what had to be his wand, but Malfoy’s hand stilled in the process and he settled for shoving Jeffrey once again with both hands. Harry’s own hands clenched as he fought to stay out of it. 

“Listen to me, you worthless muggle. You gave me a place to stay for all of a month while I sorted myself, and you scrounged up some second hand gear, and for that I have absolutely fucked you in thanks, but without me your piece of shit band would be just a bunch of blokes howling at the moon on a street corner for pocket change. Apologies, AJ.” He hadn’t taken his eyes (or hands) off of the seething Jeffrey. AJ just nodded with a resigned look, tossed his hands up and went back to securing gear. “If I occasionally fuck you, it does not and never will give you ownership of my person. Do. Not. Presume.”

“Shit,” said Jeffrey. “Look whose teeth came in.” Malfoy let him up and Jeffrey made a careful show of adjusting his shirt. “Guess I should hit up that neighbor before you do.”

“That idiot has terrible fucking taste, but you’re probably too cartoonishly stupid for even him. And that’s saying something.”

Jeffrey took keys from his pocket and hurled them at AJ, who barely caught them before they nailed him in the face. “You go on ahead. I’m heading back in. I forgot something.”

Malfoy did not drop his gaze. “Wash your hands afterwards. You don’t know where they’ve been.”

Once Jeffrey disappeared through the backdoor of the club, Malfoy swore under his breath. AJ was louder. 

“What an asshole,” he said with a headshake. “We should just sell his goddamn shit and disappear.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it again, and bent for the box he’d dropped. 

“Let’s just get out of here. I’m pretty sure we’re done.”

AJ took the box and gave Malfoy a pointed look. 

“I fucking hope so, my man. I can’t think of anyone deserves to be treated like that, and I’ve been with some real winners.”

Something scurried out from the dumpster nearest Harry and he took an involuntary step back, kicking something else in the process. Malfoy and AJ both squinted into the darkness, but Harry was already backing out of the alley, before heedlessly disapparating back to his flat. 

###

He materialized with a louder slam than he intended, and Harry winced, hoping he hadn’t disturbed Craig. When no protests followed, he began rifling through his trunk. A few minutes later, he was tossing Insta-Floo into the radiator and calling for Hermione’s flat. 

“This better be goo-- Harry!” she exclaimed belatedly as she stomped into view, still tying her fluffy robe. Once she recognized him, she rushed to the hearth and knelt as she shoved a mass of brown curls out of her face. “How are you? Why haven’t you answered me? Where’ve you been?”

“Where you sent me, of course,” he answered. “Hermione, listen, everything is fine, but I need a favor. Could you dig up information on which of Malfoy’s female housemates might have been a cellist? Concert level?”

Hermione frowned at him. “Of course, but. It’s five AM on a Sunday. Does this have something to do with the investigation?”

Harry paused, reluctant to lie to her, but inexplicably just as reluctant to expose Malfoy. Not to mention the fact that he felt incredibly stupid for forgetting the time difference between them.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, no, sorry. Maybe. It’s a long story. Sorry for waking you, too.” It was as non-committal as he could be. “I also need information on that person’s relatives here in the States, if you can manage it. How long?”

“Give me a day,” she said definitively. “I’ll get you what I can and I should have an idea by then if there’s anything else to be had.”

“Fantastic, Hermione. Thank you,” said Harry, pushing one side of his specs up to rub at his eyelid. 

“Honestly, Harry,” she said, tilting her head. “I was starting to worry. I hadn’t heard from you in a week, and even then it was all work.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s been busy. This city--” Harry paused and looked away. “There’s just. A lot here.”

“I’ve heard,” she said, settling into a cross-legged seat. “May as well tell me about it, now that I’m up.”

Harry stifled a groan, but knew better than to argue. As such, all he could do was get comfortable and start with tales of New York’s famed public library.

###

“David you piece of shit, I know you’re in there,” came a rough shout from the hallway, accompanied by angry knocking, and Harry decided that he’d had enough. He slipped his wand into the pocket of his striped and worn pyjama bottoms, but didn’t even bother with his glasses as he walked out.

“Morning?” Craig called to him from where he was sitting at the small table, but Harry just held a hand up.

“Don’t beat anyone’s ass,” said Craig. “Cops aren’t all that friendly around here.”

Harry growled in response and threw the door open. “Shove off, you useless piece of shite,” he said, walking slowly towards Jeffrey, who had turned his attention to Harry. 

“Half-expected you to be inside _my_ apartment,” he said with a sneer that was nowhere near as practiced or effective as Malfoy’s. “Although if that little bitch is at your place, it wouldn’t surprise me.” He didn’t look concerned as Harry came closer, but that changed when Harry was suddenly on him, shoving him against the wall hard enough that his head bounced off of the shitty wallpaper. Jeffrey tried to struggle, but Harry had pinned him effectively. The lights in the corridor flickered. 

“Here’s the thing, _Jeffrey_. You’re a fucking asshole. I don’t actually know why he puts up with you, or for that matter why anyone puts up with you, but that just means I’m the one with the most common sense right now, and that is never okay.” Jeffrey put up a brief struggle as he swore under his breath, but Harry just held him with a forearm across Jeffrey’s collarbones, close to his vulnerable throat, slamming him against the thin wall with another hard thump. His free hand twisted the fingers of Jeffrey’s right hand back as far as they could go before tendons began to snap, and Jeffrey suddenly looked panicked.

“Do not misunderstand me. You are done here. Fuck you and your band. Come around this building again, and I will fucking break every last one of your fingers myself. Twice. Are we clear?” Harry stared hard at him and applied a little more pressure. Jeffrey cracked. 

“Clear! Clear! Augh--” he bucked like a wounded animal, and Harry just stepped away, expressing no emotion when Jeffrey’s exertions landed him on the ground. He scrabbled to regain his footing, crabwalking for a moment before finally straightening and lurching away. Once he was out of range, he shouted, “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

All Harry could do was laugh.

“More talented men have tried,” he said with a shrug. “Good luck with that.”

“Dammit,” said a new voice, and Harry spared it a small piece of attention as he watched Jeffrey’s retreating shape. “He’s--” there was another pause. “Dammit. It’s his van!” AJ’s attention was suddenly focused on Harry.

“I think you’ll learn to get by without his sparkling personality,” Harry said in a half-hearted deadpan. Malfoy appeared over AJ’s shoulder. 

“Saint Potter. You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “I couldn’t.” AJ looked confused, his glance darting between them as though at a tennis match.

“Then I suppose congratulations are in order for destroying my livelihood. Again,” Malfoy drawled. 

“You don’t seem too sorry to see it go,” said Harry, his heart speeding in his chest a little as Malfoy shot him what might have been a genuine smile. 

“It was a pretty poor excuse for a livelihood,” Malfoy said with a shrug as he eased past AJ.

“Guys, this is serious,” said AJ. Malfoy held a hand up to forestall the inevitable panic.

“There are a dozen drummers just like him in this town, and a thousand more who might actually be worthwhile humans,” Malfoy said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “We’ll figure it out. We should probably thank Potter here, though. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?”

Harry had been listening intently, but Malfoy’s dig stirred him to action. 

“Not really, no,” said Harry, taking a step closer. Malfoy went on unperturbed. 

“For us all to fall at the feet of our savior.” 

Harry continued to close the distance between them. Two feet, a foot. Six inches were all that separated his face from Malfoy’s, causing him to tilt his head back the tiniest bit to account for their slight difference in height.

“I’m not anyone’s savior. I just know assholes when I see them.” Harry’s eyes darted from Malfoy’s to his lips and back, involuntarily. Malfoy leaned in just a little more and did something very similar, but when his gaze raked across Harry’s, the few fine lines around his eyes went cold and stiff and he backed off. 

“It comes from long years of practice,” he said, splaying his hand on Harry’s chest for a brief moment that rang all of the bells in Harry’s head. Then Malfoy gave him the tiniest of shoves. “After all, even your filthy muggles had a mirror, I’m sure.”

Harry nodded ruefully, shifting his attention up toward the stained hallway ceiling. “Have it your way, Malfoy.”

“I always do, Potter,” said Malfoy, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the apartment again. Harry lost track of who was watching, and for a shining moment did not care as he hung his head with a groan.

“Uh. Thanks, I guess?” offered AJ, who looked just as confused. 

Harry held his hand up as though requesting that AJ just stop, and shuffled heavily through his own door. The action was then followed with several loud exclamations, and at least two violent banging sounds from low on the door.

He had no idea what had just happened, but it had. Harry could only kick things. And apologize to Craig.

###

Early Monday morning, Harry’s temporary Floo connection through the ancient radiator roared to life, displaying Hermione, crouching, but all business down to the cufflinks in her her tailored shirt.

“Harry. I’ve got something.”

###

Harry rushed to the office after his call with Hermione. She’d found an incredible amount of information in such a short amount of time, and Harry should know better than to be surprised by her proficiency at anything, but he found himself grinning madly at the profusion of reports that had turned up on his desk. 

Bottom line: Purebloods tended to ensure that their children were trained in the arts, but the only ones that had carried forward with any amount of talent were Millicent Bulstrode (a pianist), Astoria Greengrass (a dancer), and one Pansy Parkinson, who had moved to some undisclose location abroad not quite a year ago. Along with her cello.

Of course. Parkinson and Malfoy had been inseparable. Why he’d even bothered to look anywhere else was beyond him. Harry sighed and dug through the lists of familial connections, but saw none in New York, or even anywhere nearby. Frowning into space, he suddenly had a thought. A name that looked familiar. A date that was too close to be coincidental. 

Harry stood so quickly, he kicked his shin into the open drawer of his desk. A single sheet of paper was clutched in his hand as he rushed to the administrative assistant.

“Frank. Could you--” he stared at the paper for a moment, subconsciously adjusting his glasses as he did so. “Could I see the file on the suspected cell in Newark? Please?”

###

Harry rushed out of the public exit, trying not to look harried. His thoughts were a jumble of whether he should call for backup; whether he was absolutely full of shite. Whether if he just showed up at this address he might scare the living end out of some nice old lady, or whether he might be hit with a killing curse before he knew what had happened. 

And of Malfoy, of course. Always that buggering ferret. 

“In a hurry, Potter?”

Harry’s head snapped up and swung around, alarmed at how far his mind was going to recreate Malfoy’s voice in his head. Instead he saw the very Slytherin standing about two feet to his left, negligently leaning on a tree.

“Wh--?” was all he could manage for a moment, brain short-circuited by Malfoy’s fine spun gold hair drifting lazily in the breeze, only mostly sure it was not a figment of his imagination. He tucked a dog-eared paperback book into a pocket that seemed to small to hold it in impeccable black slacks, then smoothed his pressed white shirt, and Harry was suddenly self-conscious. 

“Oh, you thought you were the only one who creepily tracked your schooldays nemesis?” Said Malfoy with a smirk as he straightened and brushed off his trousers where they had been in contact with the tree cage. “Come on now. Keep up.”

“How did you find me?” Harry asked somewhat stupidly. Malfoy reached out and tugged him out of the sidewalk traffic by the elbow. It was nothing more than casual, utilitarian contact, lost as soon as its intended effect was achieved, but Harry could still feel the heat of Malfoy’s fingers through his shirt. 

“You told me why you were here, dullard,” said Malfoy. “I had to assume you were telling the truth. I also had to find the exit and think about how long I was willing to stand around and wait. Fortunately, I’m able to read, and you are apparently unable to commit to an entire day’s work.”

“What? Why?” Harry tried again while he allowed the remainder of his brain to work out what to say. This time it was Malfoy that looked away.

“Honestly, I’ve no fucking idea,” Malfoy said, running a hand through his hair as he looked away. “I either wanted to leave a smoldering crater for interfering in my business, or buy you a drink for reminding me that I don’t actually enjoy putting up with dipshits like Jeffrey.”

“I don’t know how you’d forgotten,” said Harry. “It’s not like you ever did.”

“Please. I had to deal with the retrogrades in my house, then the damned morons who styled themselves as Death Eaters, and then your merry band of idiots.” Malfoy snorted a laugh. “I feel like my life has been a string of trying to figure out how to extract myself from the each successive batch of morons I thought I might be able to tolerate better than the last.”

“I guess I’m pretty low on that list,” said Harry, and was immediately sorry for it.

“Potter please. I get it, alright. I left. That--” he crossed his arms. “That was less about you than you think.”

“Malfoy, what? You fucking left. After. After we--”

“After we fucked. Yes, I did that.”

“But it wasn’t about me?” Harry said, too incredulous to be uncomfortable. “Are you bloody well serious right now?”

“Yes, you idiot, and _this_ is why,” he said with a grand gesture. “All of this. How are we still chasing each other around in a city across the goddamn sea from where we started? You shouldn’t be anything but the jumped-up gloryhound, half-mudblood, would-be saint and savior of the wizarding world that I have hated since I was eleven years old. Because I found myself thinking--” he set his jaw. “I thought…” 

He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence and Harry decided with a sudden pang of disgust that he didn’t need to know just then what Malfoy thought. Instead he shoved the creased piece of paper from his pocket at Malfoy. 

“I think I found something on Parkinson.”

###

They sat side by side on the D train out to Newark, a method of travel decided upon after realizing that the public apparition point would have been a similar distance away in terms of time spent walking. Malfoy oddly enough had been the one to point it out, having been a resident of the city for long enough to recognize when the subway just made the most sense. Harry was vaguely appalled on his behalf, and equally if not more appalled at himself for thinking it, so he shut the hell up and went along. Still, the ride had been almost companionably silent and Harry was pleased that he hadn’t made embarrassing noises or expressions anytime Malfoy’s knee touched his. 

As they neared their destination, Malfoy made a show of checking the stop as he started speaking. 

“I went looking when I got here, and not just in the obvious places. I called in every favor I had left to ask after her family; to find anyone that might know where she’d gone.” He was ostensibly staring out of the window, but Harry got the impression that he might be watching Harry’s reflection. “None in a 500-kilometer radius of Manhattan, which made me wonder whether I’d been the butt of a colossal joke. But I assumed--” he paused “--had assumed that they had been in hiding, so not locating them made sense. And then you show up and within two weeks are certain she’s hiding in Newark. Have you seen Newark? It’s a worse shithole than Manhattan.”

Harry couldn’t help a snort of laughter at that, but his response was serious.

“She might not be hiding, you know.”

“Even worse,” said Malfoy with a grimace. “She’s been a captive? for almost a year?”

“Or Obliviated. Or Confounded. Or under an Imperius curse,” Harry shrugged. “Death Eaters are inventive little bastards.”

Malfoy stared into the train window as though all of the secrets of the universe were about to be blown wide open. Instead, he was rewarded with the sight of mixed industrial and residential homes and people too small to focus on at this speed.

“They are, at that.”

###

The home was nondescript; a nice little affair on a run-down street in an older neighborhood; in reasonable commuting distance from everywhere worth the commute, yet an original resident might still be able to realistically afford to live here without a handful of roommates and three jobs. It was close to ideal for city dwellers wanting something other than a crackerbox in which to live without qualms about leaving city life behind.

It was in the end, a very boring, very dingy Privet Drive, and Harry was less than impressed. Vaguely embarrassed at his visceral reaction, Harry dutifully checked the address more than once before he nodded to Malfoy to press the button for the silent doorbell.

He exchanged a look with Malfoy after a long moment spent in silence. The sound of locks disengaging set them both back on edge. 

“Hello?” came a confused, vaguely familiar voice. “Harry?”

Harry tilted his head. “Allie?” the brunette was definitely the bartender from the original pub.

“How--” she asked in confusion too deep to be feigned, her eyes bouncing from Harry to Malfoy and back, “--and you’re from that band. What the hell?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Malfoy said. “A girl, about our age. Dark hair, bad attitude. Plays the cello like a goddamn angel.”

“Only people who live here are me and my uncle,” said Allie, holding the door defensively, her eyes darting to Harry and Malfoy’s hands. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know how you found me but, I’m really not--”

“Allie, truly. We’re just looking for this girl. Her name is Pansy, and she went missing some months ago--”

She brought up a wand and held it on them. Harry’s eyes went wide.

“No. We weren’t supposed to be found,” she said. “We’re supposed to be hiding so deep no one even knows we still exist. When he showed up,” she said with a nod toward Malfoy, “I was worried, but then he acted like every other half-adult looking to run away, and I decided he wasn’t a threat. But then you--” she risked a glance at his scar. “It’s happening here, too, isn’t it?”

Harry held his hands up, nodding towards her wand. “First, not a bloody chance. Second, if you know who I am, then you know I didn’t have to knock, right? Third--”

Malfoy interrupted. “We were told this address belonged to someone suspected of having ties to the Parkinson family, and that’s how we ended up here. I just need to know if she’s alive. I have no idea who you are other than the barkeep at that shitty pub. Honestly.”

“Precious,” came a voice with a decidedly English accent from somewhere behind the door. “Let them in.”

Allie’s gaze darted from Harry and Malfoy back into the house once before she lowered the wand again and completely disengaged the lock. She opened the door and stepped back, revealing an older man, perhaps in his fifties, in what appeared to be a work shirt and faded jeans, his feet bare. 

“Rupert Lestrange, at your service,” he said with a small bow. “Second cousin to the Parkinson family, exile from Wizarding London as of some twenty five years now. I may be of some assistance to you.”

###

Some few days later, Malfoy (with Harry in tow) rolled up to a nondescript brownstone, close enough to practically walk to the Philadelphia symphony’s rehearsal space. Braced for the unknown, Malfoy knocked on the door, only to have a snub-nosed brunette with a sharp asymmetric bob open the door and promptly throw herself at him. 

Something about a misunderstanding. Something about lost messages. Something about her best friend. Harry waited quietly on the tiny porch, grinning.

###

Still later that week, Harry found that the insistent knock at his own door was recognizable, and it was going to make Harry insane soon, but all he could do was answer. He didn’t bother looking through the peephole before tossing open the locks. 

“Malfoy, hi. Did you--”

Malfoy stepped through the open doorway, regardless of the fact that Harry was also standing in it, and in fact, appeared to be doing his damndest to take up the same space. He grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt and pressed his mouth onto Harry’s, pushing him through the door and into the narrow entryway. Harry wanted to ask what was going on, but then again, he really didn’t. Harry’s hands came up and closed around Malfoy’s forearms and he made an embarrassing sound that was closer to a whine than a groan as the door shut hard behind them.

“What?” was all he could manage when they came up for air, but Malfoy just shook his head.

“Don’t,” Malfoy growled, his hands undoing the buttons on Harry’s shirt. Harry actually groaned this time, letting his head fall back against the wall, letting Malfoy’s mouth play havoc with his throat while his shirt was shoved first off of his shoulders and then down his arms.

“Why?” Harry breathed, adding, “Oh, fuck. Fuck me,” when Malfoy carelessly unfastened his trousers, his knuckles and fingertips brushing against the flat front of Harry’s work slacks, which were not as flat as they purported to be at the very moment.

“Why not,” Malfoy panted, covering Harry’s mouth again with his own, nipping at his lower lip gently, but insistently, just as he was tugging on Harry’s belt loops in a direction that hinted away from the door. 

Harry’s mind was short circuiting. He had indeed kissed other people; he’d made out with men and women alike (though to be fair, the former definitely had the advantage over the latter, and had for quite some time now), he’d fucked several of them as well, but no one had ever rung his bells quite as loudly and clearly as Malfoy had. His mouth was driving Harry to utter distraction, his teeth set into Harry’s lip were only allowed loose so that he could return attentions to the sensitive bits of Harry’s neck, to leave marks or not as suited him because really if Harry ended up one giant purple splot for days, there was no way he would care if he could just keep feeling like this. This was probably why they stalked each other; why they’d never be rightfully quit of one another. Why that first night, that last one, had so truly blown Harry’s mind. 

Suddenly he was pawing at Malfoy, but the gesture was more intended to push him away rather than help make him naked. Malfoy was breathing hard, eyes partially dilated, his hair a mess half from Harry’s desperate need for a handhold. He only moved as far away as Harry’s hands could push him, his own hands still tight at Harry’s hips.

“Not now,” he murmured, his mouth only half open, as though still reaching for Harry.

“Malfoy. What the fuck,” Harry breathed. He put up a nominal struggle to move further away, but gave up immediately upon encountering resistance. 

“Can we not do this?” said Malfoy. “Can’t we--”

“We did this!” shouted Harry. Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut briefly, his hands relaxing their grip, but Harry didn’t move. “We did exactly this and you ran off. Why are you here?”

“Because, you bloody numbskull,” Malfoy said. “Because I wanted to be here.”

“You crossed the fucking ocean to get away from me, Malfoy. I’m finding that hard to believe.”

Malfoy made a loud sound of both frustration and disgust, released his hold on Harry’s hips and began angrily refastening his own trousers. 

“Believe what you want,” he spat. “I don’t answer to you. And never mind. I don’t know why I’m here either.”

Harry grabbed for Malfoy’s wrist, which set off a brief, heated tussle.

“Malfoy--”

“Get off, Potter,” 

“Stop!” Harry shouted, this time shoving Malfoy into the opposite wall. 

“I didn’t want this!” Malfoy shouted back with a shove. Already confused, Harry could only stare. “Any of this. I just wanted my life to be normal. I understand Wizarding society. I understand Slytherin. I wasn’t--” he paused, tongue in his cheek, staring at the ceiling, “wasn’t prepared to be on both sides of a war, to become a penniless pariah, to be fucking a Gryffindor with a savior complex. And I certainly wasn’t fucking prepared to feel anything about it.”

His mouth open and shut once, but Harry was too stunned to speak. Most of that outburst was fairly self-evident from having spent too much time in proximity to Malfoy, but there was never an indication he’d hear any of it out loud. Especially not that last part. Especially not what came next.

“We’ve spent the better part of our lives chasing each other around, Potter,” Malfoy said into space. “I wasn’t prepared to be a cliché.”

Harry couldn’t resist. Never had been able to, and honestly that was exactly what Malfoy was talking about. He stepped right back into Malfoy’s personal space, his hands on Malfoy’s shoulder and hip, gripping firmly as he dropped his mouth into the hollow of Malfoy’s throat, punctuating his short sentences with kisses that involved a little too much bite. “So. Fuck it. I don’t want to go back either.” Malfoy stiffened a little, but didn’t stop him. “Ever. Let’s do this here. I’ll be some random government asshole, you be some random musician. Can we please just… melt into the crowd?”

Malfoy said nothing. Harry tried again, trying not to imagine the crashing, resounding rejection that was forthcoming. He had to try. This was never going to end any other way.

“We are bloody well indistinguishable from everyone around us here.” He nibbled on Malfoy’s earlobe, and was rewarded with a shudder and a tentative hand on the nape of his neck. “So, fuck it, _David_ ,” he repeated, adding Malfoy’s pseudonym with a heavy note of sarcasm. His hand drifted to the side of Malfoy’s throat and there was no resistance as he began a one-handed unbuttoning operation. “Pleased to fucking meet you. I’m Martin.”

That actually got a huff of laughter. A bloom of hope unfolded in Harry’s chest, but he held it in; held it down for what seemed an eternity until Malfoy turned his head into Harry’s, murmuring, nosing his temple as he slid his fingers through Harry’s wild hair. 

“Take me to bed, _Martin_ We’ll work it out later.” 

Harry was willing to be Martin forever at this point. The tightness in his ribcase unfurled and he wasted no time in crushing his mouth to Malfoy’s, dragging him backwards to his shitty little room in this shitty little flat, in this shitty neighborhood of what had to be the greatest city on the planet.

He’d apologize to Craig for the messy trail of discarded clothing later.

###  
###

Harry sat at the bar, nursing the beer he’d ordered twenty minutes ago, feeling more than watching Malfoy sing. AJ was still on the guitar, and they’d found another drummer. This one was without a van, but he had access to moving his own gear, and they were figuring it out. Malfoy’s growling was doing things for Harry that weren’t conducive to letting the band finish their set or even make it to the second, and so he sat dutifully and tried to smile rather than leer and wish for midnight.

The set finished and he waved over the bartender, who bounced over with a huge grin. 

“Am I sending him the usual?” Allie asked. Harry grinned back. 

“Always,” he said. “And one for AJ, too.”

“Already did. Ooh! Look!” she said arching her eyebrow. “There he comes. Lucky little shit.”

“Me? Or him?” he asked as she backed away making kissyfaces. 

“Yes,” she shouted in agreement, and moved on to the next customer. 

“Hi,” Malfoy said, settling into the tiny space next to Harry. Harry slid a lazy arm around his waist. 

“You were fucking amazing, as usual,” said Harry as Malfoy took a drink and leaned in to accept adoration. 

“Was there ever a doubt?” 

“Oh my god,” came a voice from over Harry’s shoulder. A small knot of young women and one man were grinning, one outright giggling. “You are. Mmph. So good.”

“Thank you,” smirked Malfoy, turning in Harry’s arm to face them. He took a long sip and set his glass on the bar. “I can be pretty impressive.” Harry smiled around his pint, finished it and set it alongside Malfoy’s half-full glass. He half-turned as well, just to get the angle of his arm properly seated across Malfoy’s middle, oddly enough suddenly suffused with… was that contentment?

“We were just wondering--” said the pretty blonde girl in the lead, “--if you wanted a drink.”

“Or ten,” said the young man behind her, to a chorus of giggles.

“Or ten,” agreed the girl. “Or something.”

Malfoy smirked playfully and leaned into Harry. “I have ‘something’ covered, but I’ll take the drink. Thanks for coming out to see us.”

“Aw man. I told you,” said the second girl. “No way he was straight.”

“Or single,” sighed the young man. 

“We’ll still come out and see you though,” said the blonde in a conciliatory fashion. Harry snorted a laugh into Malfoy’s shoulder.

“You should hit up AJ,” Malfoy said congenially with a nod toward the guitarist. “He’s definitely single. And straight.” The blonde girl grinned and bumped her friend. 

“Good enough,” she said with a genuine smile. “See you around?”

“Sure thing,” Harry answered instead. Malfoy shot him a look over his shoulder, their faces within inches of one another. Harry shrugged. “What? We’re not going anywhere just now.”

Malfoy heaved a put-out sigh and rotated to face Harry. His smirk took on that lop-sided cast that Harry had only begun to see recently.

“We aren’t, are we?” Malfoy said more than asked, tilting his head and leaning in.

Harry would have answered, but then Malfoy’s mouth was on his, and the fans were fading away, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to interrupt any of it in order to snark. Surely that was a sign of maturity, or something like it. Surely maturity brought happy endings, didn’t it?

He sighed, let his eyes slide shut, and hoped.

###


End file.
